


Nights Were Mainly Made for Saying

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 10:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It's possible. Emma is certain. She's going to fix this. She's going to save him. By time traveling. Which is totally, absolutely possible.She's read about it. There's a theory.So, no one has ever actually done it yet, but that doesn't mean she can't or they can't try and she just needs a little help. From Killian Jones. And his magic.





	1. Part I

“Say that again.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“I know you heard me the first time,” Emma growls, trying to push her way through the half-open doorway. Killian, however, doesn’t move. If anything, he grows several feet, eyes widening and an expression on his face that appears torn between disbelief and incredulous.

And possibly furious.

Or worried.

Emma can’t really tell the difference.

This might have been a mistake.

She huffs, shoulders drooping with the force of her own frustration. “I don’t get why you’re being such a jerk about this,” she mumbles, kicking at his ankles like they’re friends or something.

They’re not... _not_ friends. Not really. Killian’s been around for as long as Emma can remember because he’s been David’s partner for as long as Emma can remember and magical folk alway tend to flock towards each other.

It’s some kind of defense mechanism, she’s positive, a twist of their genetic makeup or something because magical folk are emotional and prone to immediate reaction and neither one of those things ever works out very well in the real world. So they’ve got to be around each other. To make sure no one else figures out they’re there.

Strength in numbers or whatever.

No one really knows how magic started or why it only appears in certain people, but they’re there and some sort of quasi-community and support system Emma never could have imagined when she was sitting in a foster home in Minnesota, certain the way lights always flickered around her was just a byproduct of an exceptionally difficult puberty.

Magic was in her blood. As they say. Or as Mary Margaret would say because Mary Margaret loved to say things like that and promise things like that and Emma had nearly collapsed when she felt the particular rush of her magic at freshman orientation.

It went from there. Mary Margaret never left Emma’s side, or vice versa, and David appeared sophomore year, a rush of power and positivity that was questionably good at _brewing things_ and they found more magic in New York, of the literal and metaphorical variety, a family and a certainty and nothing bad was ever going to happen.

Except, of course, when one of your magical friends is murdered in cold blood, alone, without any suspects of any kind. Then, you know, the cliché loses a bit of its weight.

Emma kicks at Killian’s shin that time.

He scowls, lips twisted and head tilted at an angle that cannot possibly be good for his neck. And, for the first time since Emma marched to his front door fifteen minutes earlier, she takes a second to look at him. Really. Because he looks like shit. Really.

There are bags under his eyes and a hint of red in his gaze, like he’s gotten approximately forty-seven minutes of sleep in the last few days. His hair is longer than usual, curling behind his ears and the NYPD t-shirt he’s got on has a hole in the right sleeve.

“Swan, I swear to God,” Killian growls as soon as the toes of her boot collide with his ankle again. “If you don’t stop assaulting me, I’m going to--”  
  
“--What? What could you possibly threaten me with? Ignoring my requests again?”

“Oh, they’re requests now, are they?”  
  
“Obviously,” Emma sneers, and this is not going the way she thought it would at all. She, admittedly, did not think it was going to go great, but the whole thing has been a disaster from the get and she’s averaging less than forty-seven minutes of sleep a night.

“Strangely enough I’m not getting that at all.”  
  
“Because you’re being the most difficult person on the planet.”  
  
“I really don’t see how that’s true,” Killian argues, and, that time, Emma’s foot comes up against an invisible barricade. The pain ricochets up her thigh, lingering around her knee and there are not enough curses or spells for all the things she wants to do to Killian Jones.

And that, really, is her problem.

Because Emma doesn’t really _like_ Killian, but she doesn’t really _hate_ Killian and she knows he’s the only one who will even consider going along with this plan.

It’s a relatively crazy plan.

“That’s a cheap trick,” she accuses, but he just flashes her a grin and his eyes almost look normal. Emma has no idea what his eyes normally look like.

The lie tastes bitter on her tongue, even without saying it out loud.

“I hate to repeat myself, love, but, again, I really don’t see how that’s true.”  
  
“Magician.”  
  
“Ah, that’s rude.”  
  
“A fact,” Emma growls. He hasn’t taken the barrier down. He’s lifted his eyebrows instead, the smirk settling onto his face like it’s putting down roots. “Listen, I’m going to do this whether you want to help or not, so--”

She’s not entirely sure what happens after that.

It’s a rush of _something_ , magic and feeling and a hint of emotion that may be concern or something fundamentally deeper and far more important than that, but it leaves Emma breathless anyway, mouth falling open as she tries to take it all in. Killian jerks forward, fingers wrapped around Emma’s wrist, like he’s nervous she’s going to start disappearing right then.

She’s fairly certain that’s not how the spell works.

His fingers are impossibly warm.

“I can’t keep doing nothing,” Emma says, voice dropping of its own accord. The words scratch their way out of her, fighting their way to the surface because they’ve been sitting in the pit of her stomach for weeks and Graham didn’t deserve that.

He didn’t deserve to be alone.

He didn’t deserve to die.

Emma is going to fix this. She’s a goddamn witch.

“There’s not anything for you to do, Swan.”  
  
“We both know that’s wrong.”  
  
Killian sighs, thumb tracing across the back of her wrist. “That’s all speculation. No one’s ever actually done it.”  
  
“That you know of.”  
  
“You are pulling at straws, love.”  
  
“If that’s what I have to do, then, yeah, fine, I’m pulling at straws.” Emma wishes her voice would pick a volume and stick with it. Instead, it cracks over every other syllable, tears welling in the corners of her eyes and stinging retinas that are in desperate need of a set sleep cycle. Killian doesn’t blink. “Graham was a good guy.”  
  
“I’m not questioning that. Good is a vast understatement.”  
  
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Emma presses, and she’s starting to sound desperate to her own ears. “It’s...it’s driving me insane. There are too many coincidences for it to be the accident David thinks it is.”  
  
For half a second Emma thinks she imagined the next few words out of Killian’s mouth. For half a second she thinks she’s actually delved into complete and utter insanity. For half a second she’s terrified.

But Killian doesn’t blink and his thumb is still pressed flat against her skin and Emma’s lungs are incredibly grateful when she takes a deep breath.

“Say that again,” she whispers.

The smirk turns into a smile. “I feel like we’re going in circles, Swan.”  
  
“Killian, c’mon, I--”  
  
“--I think it was a witch.”  
  
Emma’s entire body sags when she exhales, head colliding with Killian’s chest and she barely considers the fact that he didn’t barricade _that_ before she’s wrapping both her arms around him. She mumbles something into his shirt, nonsense that may just be _thank you_ several dozen times and that doesn’t really make sense, but David wouldn’t listen and Mary Margaret couldn’t listen and Graham did not deserve to die.

Alone.

He died alone.

“Did you tell David that?” Emma mumbles, Killian’s head shake almost audible.

“He’s not interested in that. The department said it was cut and dry. Wrong place, wrong time, and a weak heart, but it was…”

He trails off, Emma’s heart thundering in her ears because she knows how that sentence is going to end. It’s impossible. The medical records don’t make any sense. It wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke or anything remotely human.

It was magical and wrong and Emma is going to fix it.

Before it happens.

“You don’t know this is going to work,” Killian continues, a warning there that Emma ignores.

“I’m more optimistic about it than I was, like, four days ago.”  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
“Because I tried four days ago and it didn’t work.”

“Emma!”

She jerks back at the sound of her own name, eyebrows furrowed because they’re not friends and he never calls her that, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives her pause. She bites her lip. “It didn’t work,” Emma repeats. “So, you know...no harm, no foul. Or whatever.”  
  
“That’s not whatever. That is…” Killian exhales sharply, tongue flashing between his lips and Emma has to dig her heels into the floor to stop herself from moving. “You can’t do that again, love. Please.”  
  
Emma nods slowly, an agreement without considering what she’s agreeing to. She can see the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallows though, and he’s going to do damage to his jaw if he holds it any tighter. “I don’t think anyone can do it alone,” she says. “I...it’s not simple magic.”  
  
“Because going back in time should be impossible.”

“Not in theory.”  
  
“And what happens if it doesn’t work?”  
  
Emma shrugs, a flush of fear creeping up her spine and settling at the base of her skull and the magic seems to spark in her fingertips. Killian laces his hand through hers without a word. “That’s why you’re here,” she says, and those words have a weight to them as well, a certainty she didn’t expect, but kind of needs because she’s not entirely what will happen if this doesn’t work.

Killian’s lips twitch. “And you didn’t think to ask David or Mary Margaret?”  
  
“David won’t and Mary Margaret can’t. You know that. And…”  
  
“And?”  
  
“You also know you’re better at magic than both of them. Don’t laugh at me.”  
  
“Why would I laugh when you’re complimenting me so nicely, Swan?”  
  
Emma flicks his chest, another twist of his eyebrows and quirk of his lips and his fingers are back around her wrist as quickly as if he’d teleported them there. He might have. He’s very good at magic.

He’s very good at everything.

It’s frustrating.

“We can’t just go into this blind, you know,” Killian says. “There’s got to be a plan and an escape route and--”  
  
“--And I’ve got that. All of it. Well, most of it.”  
  
“Most of it?”  
  
“You’re going to be the worst time travel partner, I know it.”  
  
“That’s assuming this works.”  
  
“It’s really not helping my confidence or my magic that you keep pointing out the likelihood of failure,” Emma mutters, trying to pull her hand back to her side. Killian’s fingers tighten. “The books are clear. It’s all about getting the incantation right and, well, you know...having enough power. I don’t...it didn’t work on my own and you’re the strongest magic I know. So either you agree or you don’t and we just...we never know what happened and we don’t fix it.”  
  
Killian considers that for a moment, eyes tracing across Emma’s face like he’s looking for the lie or the inevitable jab at his character. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. She holds her breath.

He taps his thumb on the back of her wrist again.

“You want to fix it?”

Emma hisses. “Was that not obvious?”  
  
“It felt wrong to assume.”  
  
“He shouldn’t be dead.”  
  
“The world’s not all that interested in that, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Yeah, well, fuck the world,” Emma says, and Killian’s eyes widen. “Listen. I…”  
  
“Ok.”

She’s positive she imagined it again.

That’s a frustrating habit to have picked up in the last few moments.

Emma gasps, stumbling back at the certainty in those two letters and the force of the magic around them and she’s certain they’re setting off several metaphorical alarm bells to every other _being_ in a hundred-block radius, but _ok_ is echoing between her ears and she’s almost hopeful this will work.

“Ok?”  
  
Killian hums. “You’re right. He shouldn’t be dead and I don’t think he died the way we’ve been told. There’s something wrong here. So, if you want to figure it out, then...seems wrong not to help somehow.”  
  
“What a gentleman.”  
  
“Something like that.”

“Alright,” Emma says, drawing the word out cautiously like she’s nervous he’s going to change his mind. “So, um…”  
  
“I’m not particularly interested in time traveling with you immediately, love. And if we’re going to assume our success is based entirely on the strength of our magic, then I’d suggest we aim for a well-placed full moon on Halloween.”  
  
“There’s a full moon on Halloween?”  
  
“You’re a very observant witch.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue, but he’s also got a point. Several of them. She hopes she doesn’t regret this. She hopes this works.

“Just like that?” Emma asks. “Full moon on Halloween and you’re ready to go back in time and prevent a murder?”  
  
“You came to me, Swan.”  
  
That’s another point.

Emma’s going to scream. Or curse him. Or something else. Something less aggressive, but possibly just as drastic as cursing.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I did.”  
  
The floor creaks when he moves, stepping away from the doorframe and Emma shudders as soon as his arms wrap around her. It’s like...something or everything and the magic in her veins practically _sings_ , a certainty and confidence and she buries her face against Killian’s chest without asking.

His fingers drift across her spine, tracing between her shoulder blades like he’s following a path he can see and Emma lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s exhausted and worried, but she’s also tired of both of those emotions, and even more tired of seeing Mary Margaret cry and David ignore the possibility that there’s magic in New York they’re not aware of. So Emma doesn’t move, just breathes in the scent of laundry detergent and something that smells a bit like salt and it’s as if time gives them both a second to be.

Just to be.

Emma assumes that means time is on their side.

She appreciates it.

“You can’t tell David or Mary Margaret,” Killian says, the words far too loud in a moment Emma didn’t particularly want to end.  

“No, no, I won’t. They wouldn’t...they’d try to stop us and--”  
  
“--I know, love.”  
  
Emma doesn’t think he realizes he keeps switching between endearments – he’s got nicknames for everyone, sarcasm and smirks and a distinct lack of sincerity that always seems to fall by the wayside whenever he glances her direction. She’s not sure he realizes that either. And she’s got no idea when she did.

Probably before deciding to time travel with Killian Jones.

“If I say that we should meet at moonrise, are you going to actually make fun of me?” Emma asks, leaning back in just enough time to see his tongue find the corner of his mouth.

“Absolutely.”

“Ok. Good.”  
  
“Maybe a few minutes before moonrise. Just to be safe.”  
  
“That’s what we’re being? Safe?”  
  
Killian nods. “When playing with uncharted magic, yes, but ...you’re right. I think this could work.”

The magic around them grows, strong enough that Emma is surprised she can’t actually see it. She can feel it though, like it’s cracking through the air and weaving between them, connections and knots, all of them twining together and twisting and it’s not as terrifying as it probably should be. It’s comforting.

“Moonrise,” Emma repeats, taking a step back and Killian’s hand falls to his side. “Here?”  
  
“Less likely for David or Mary Margaret to appear unannounced, yeah?”  
  
There’s something on the edge of his voice, but Emma’s too preoccupied with her pulse and her magic to linger too long on it. She hopes that’s not a mistake. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Ok, so, uh, it’s a date?”  
  
Killian chuckles lightly, hair grazing his eyebrows when he nods. “It’s a date, Swan.” 

* * *

She sends Mary Margaret and David an email.

In case this doesn’t work.

Or something.

It seems less hokey than taping a note to their apartment door – which is only a few doors away from Emma’s apartment door, but it also feels a little less emotional and a bit more detached and Emma doesn’t bring anything except her phone with her when she walks fifteen blocks to Killian’s building.

He answers on the third knock, a different NYPD shirt and sneakers that look new. There are candles everywhere, more than few stacks of paperwork littering the floor. Emma’s eyes dart around the room, not sure what to land on because she’s now only a little worried they’re going to burn to death before they can even start the spell.

“What the hell is this?” she asks. “And did you buy new shoes?”  
  
Killian doesn’t quite glare at her, but it’s an admirable effort. “Why is David already texting me?”  
  
“I asked you first.”  
  
“This is...not a big deal. Did you tell David and Mary Margaret what you were doing?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Not...directly.”  
  
“Emma,” Killian groans, and she wishes he would stop doing that. It’s messing with her mind and her center and she needs both of those to be as perfect as possible. Her magic is vibrating, she’s positive.

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now. We are running out of time.”  
  
“We are literally trying to time travel. We have more time than we could possibly know what to do with.”

“So then ask me this question when we’re in the past,” Emma mutters. “Did you work on the pronunciation for the spell? That’s important.”  
  
“I’ve cast spells before, Swan.”  
  
They’re both dancing around each other, deflections and distractions and neither one of those seem entirely appropriate a few minutes ahead of what they’re trying to accomplish, but it’s also the basis for their entire relationship.

Emma wishes her mind would shut the hell up.

She can hear kids laughing on the street below them, trick-or-treaters and humans without any knowledge of the magic that exists around them and sometimes threatens them and if there’s a witch out there killing other beings, then they’ve got a moral obligation to stop it.

Together.

She sighs, a breath of air she probably needs, and it takes less than a full moment for Killian to move into her space. His fingers are still warm when they brush over hers, twisting her hand to place something in her palm.

It’s a moonstone.

“Where did you get this?” Emma asks in disbelief.

“I’ve had it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Hold onto it, ok?”  
  
Emma nods slowly, lips suddenly dry because at some point her mind decided to start breathing through her mouth and moonstones are supposed to protect travelers. She doesn’t ask if he has one for himself.

“Alright,” Killian continues, grabbing several candles and moving them around a photo on his coffee table. Emma nearly chokes. It’s the crime scene, police tape obvious and a body even clearer and her vision spins as soon as the realization slams into.

He must feel the shift in her magic because he spins as soon as Emma’s breath hitches, a mumbled _hey, hey_ and something that sounds like _it’s alright, love_ and she nods as soon as his thumb grazes her cheek.

“Fine,” Emma promises. “I’m fine. You seriously know how to say all the words, right? I don’t want to end up, like, in the prehistoric age.”  
  
“I highly doubt that’s how it would work, Swan. Plus, every theory I’ve read says if you want to travel, you need visual of where you’re going. We’ve got that.”  
  
“You’ve got that. Why do you have that?”  
  
The tips of Killian’s ears go red. It’s a tell. It’s been a tell for years. “I already told you. You weren’t the only one with suspicions.”  
  
“You’ve been researching this!”  
  
“That’s a very dirty-sounding word. I’ve been...looking into it. That’s all.”  
  
Emma hums, but that realization seems to crash into her with the force of several eighteen-wheelers and the stone in her hand feels as if it’s vibrating. “Sure,” she says, taking a step around him and it feels like a million miles. “Alright, so we focus on the picture and the moment and--”  
  
“--Cast the spell? Yeah, that’s usually how it works.”  
  
“I’m going to kill you and leave your body in the past.”  
  
“That is violent.”  
  
“Happy Halloween.”

Killian barks out a laugh, teeth finding his lower lip. “C’mon, Swan. We’re getting very close to the witching hour.”  
  
“That’s not how that phrase works at all.”

“C’mon.”

She doesn’t argue that time, sinking onto the far ground at the far edge of the coffee table. It isn’t easy to keep her eyes away from the photos, but she’s going to lose her nerve if she sees, and Killian is right – it’s time.

“You ready?” he asks, like this wasn’t her idea and Emma nods brusquely, taking his hand when he holds it out. Still warm. “Try to stay in rhythm when we talk. The world likes that, usually.”  
  
Emma laughs, but it’s not a joke and her whole body starts to tremble as soon as Killian waves his hand over the candles. The flames jump, a flash of blue light and energy and she knows she’s speaking, can hear her own voice echo around them, but it feels like she’s watching it as well, hovering above the scene like she’s totally detached.

“Buailín, bean an taistealaigh, féachaint ormsa,” Killian says, care on every letter. His fingers don’t leave Emma’s, growing tighter with every moment. Her palm is sweaty, she can feel the moisture, making it difficult to hold her grip, but he doesn’t let go.

She digs her nails into the back of his palm.

“Cibé an bhfuil mé ag taisteal san aer, ar thalamh nó ar muir,” Emma continues.

The flames shift again, a flash of red and anger – the emotion almost palpable in the air, as if the air is angry at them for trying. Emma squeezes her eyes closed, doing her best to fight off the wave of nausea in her stomach, but the smell only gets more potent.

It’s like burned rubber and ashes, disappointment and fury and none of it is right. She’s shaking now, quick jerks that send pain through all of her limbs and into the base of her spine, moisture pooling at the bottom of her neck.

The smell grows.

And Emma gasps when she hears it, a cry of despair that seems to rip across all of time. Her eyes snap open, if only to check that she’s not actually being ripped apart as well. It feels that way, agony and an emptiness that seems to stretch out as far as she can see.

Her eyes widen, trying to find an end, but it only looks more vast the longer she stares ahead, a never-ending wasteland of darkness and nothing.

_Alone_.

The word flashes in front of her gaze like a neon sign, taunting and Emma shakes her head. It doesn’t move. The feeling grows, blooming in the very center of her chest like there’s a black hole there, and Emma can’t breathe.

She tries to lick her lips or swallow back the cry in her throat, but she feels like she’s standing on the edge of something, any movement certain to leave her falling into the abyss in front of her.

“Swan!”  
  
She doesn’t hear it at first. It’s nothing more than a wisp and want, but he yells again and squeezes her hand and Emma grips the moonstone as tightly as she can.

“You’ve got to finish it, love,” Killian says, and, that time, Emma hears him perfectly. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Swan. You’ve got to say the words.”

“Cosúil le talisman--” she starts.

“--i mo phóca clochfaidh mé.”

His hand never leaves hers. And everything goes dark.

* * *

Emma wakes with a start, eyes scanning the room and there’s no one there.

She sits up slowly, wincing at the ache in her right palm and her fingers barely unclench. There’s a moonstone in her hand.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes. “It worked.”

It takes her a frustratingly long amount of time to figure out where she is, her apartment looking almost foreign without the empty takeout containers and piles of half-finished laundry she’d accumulated in the weeks after Graham’s death.

She shouldn’t be in her apartment.

She should be in Killian’s apartment.

She should–– “Oh shit,” she hisses again, leaping out of bed and wobbling as soon as her feet hit the floor. “Killian! Killian, are you here?”  
  
Silence.

Painful, vaguely terrifying silence.

“Killian?”  
  
Emma hates how small her own voice sounds, but bits and pieces are starting to come back and she’s not sure this worked the way she thought it would. Something about this is wrong. There shouldn’t have been that noise or those feelings, a flash of magic Emma is certain wasn’t hers. Or Killian’s.

_Killian_.

She jumps at the knock on the door, a quick rap of knuckles that’s practically exuding impatience. Emma swallows, tapping her fingers against the pajama pants she’s inexplicably wearing. Oh. _Oh_.

They hadn’t gone back to the crime scene, but they’d gone back to the day. And Emma had woken up in her apartment wearing pajama pants with a snowflake pattern on them because Mary Margaret had bought them for her last Christmas. It was a very bad joke.

The knock is louder the second time.

Emma twists her wrist, magic crackling between her fingers as she jogs towards the door. He’s halfway to a third knock when she swings it open.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, a note of wonder in his voice and she belatedly realizes it might be the first time he’s seen inside her apartment. They’re not really friends.

“Hey.”  
  
It’s an absurd response, all things considered, but Emma’s brain is firing a mile a minute and her magic is moving even quicker and she’s not entirely prepared for the look on Killian’s face. His entire expression shifts down, lips falling and shoulders sagging.

She’s almost surprised there’s not some soft of blue aura around him, just to really drive the point home.

“Oh,” he nods. “Ok, I um--”

He moves to walk away, which really is almost more absurd than Emma’s _hey_ , but then she waves her hand and he crashes into an invisible wall that wasn’t there two seconds before. Emma assumes that means she’s won.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t...don’t go. Please.”  
  
Killian turns around slowly, the heel of his hand rubbing his jaw. “Did you just magic a wall for me to run into?”  
  
“I wasn’t really thinking.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Were you...were you thinking? When you came over here?”  
  
“You’re doing a rather abysmal job of beating around the bush here, Swan.”

Emma scoffs, waving her hand again so no one else is injured by her invisible wall. In the past. They’re in the past. “That’s because I’m not entirely sure of the rules.”  
  
“I think we’ve broken right by all of those, don’t you?”  
  
“Look who’s beating around the bush now,” Emma accuses, reaching forward to stab a finger into his chest before she can reconsider it. His fingers curl around her elbow, another expression that she’s possibly hoarding or recording for posterity, and she can’t think when his tongue drags across his lips. “What exactly do you remember?”  
  
“About time traveling with you?”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Enough that I realized where we were when I woke up this morning. I’m going to go ahead and assume you remember too?”  
  
Emma nods. “That was…”  
  
“Horrendous?”  
  
“Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“Did you hear the screaming?” Emma asks, but one glance at Killian’s face is enough of an answer. “I didn’t expect that.”  
  
“Neither did I. And I don’t think it was time.”  
  
That catches her by surprise. “What? What was it then?”  
  
“I think it was the person who killed Graham.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widen, and she’s glad Killian is in front of her so she can rest her palm flat against his chest. “But that noise. That wasn’t--”  
  
“--We didn’t think it was human, love.”

“That didn’t sound like a witch,” Emma argues. “That sounded like...I don’t even know what. Every horrible thing in the world. That can’t be right.”  
  
“If you’ve got another suggestion, I’m all ears.”  
  
Emma scowls. She doesn’t have another suggestion. She’s got negative suggestions. “You want some coffee?”  
  
And, really, she shouldn’t be keeping track, but Killian’s face keeps doing _things_ and responding to her and he hasn’t tried to move her hand away from him. So, she adds that expression to the list she’s only maybe kind of keeping and tries to smile like any of this is normal and Killian’s step is almost steady when he crosses the threshold.

He puts four spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee.

And they try to come up with a plan.

* * *

It’s a garbage plan. It’s a garbage, shit, _terrible_ plan and Emma can’t help the whimper that falls out of her as soon as Killian’s phone goes off, David’s frantic voice on the other end because _Graham’s dead_ and they’ve done all this before.

David only looks a little stunned when they show up at the crime scene together.

“What the…” he mumbles, shaking his head like it’s all a dream and Emma wishes it was.

She and Killian had left her apartment hours earlier, patrolling the twenty blocks around where Graham was found. There wasn’t anything. No clues. No nothing. Everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

And Graham looked even more pale in person than in the photos.

Emma turned on the spot, head colliding with the jut of Killian’s shoulder as he tried to tug her closer to his side.

David’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.

“What the hell is happening right now?” he demands. “How the hell did you get here so fast? How did both of you get here?”  
  
Killian ignores all three questions. “What’s your gut reaction to this?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your gut reaction, Nolan. Now!”  
  
David flinches at the acid in Killian’s voice, gaze flitting from his partner to Emma and back again. It reminds her of a pinball machine. “The coroner thinks it’s a heart attack,” David mumbles. “No outward signs of struggle and no witnesses and--”  
  
“--That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“What the hell are you getting at? You’re making it sound like you’re looking for something nefarious here.”

Killian sighs, letting his cheek rest on the top of Emma’s head. They’re not friends. _They’re not friends_. They’re time-travel partners. Who failed. Completely. And immediately.

David appears to be choking.

“You’ve got to tell me what’s going on with you two.”

Both Killian and Emma ignore that as well.

“There wasn’t anything, David?” she asks instead. “Nothing suspicious?”  
  
“Should there be?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Sure you don’t.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, falling back on tried and true when nothing feels like that. Killian’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “What was Graham doing here?” Emma presses. “We’re not anywhere near his apartment.”  
  
“It’s a city, Em. People go out. Right?”  
  
She’s positive he doesn’t mean for that last question to sound as unsure as it does, but the world appears to be playing one long trick-or-treat joke on her and Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks. “Yeah, I guess,” she mutters.

Her eyes dart back towards Graham, though, medics and the coroner and she can dimly make out the crinkle of a body bag unfolding. Killian's mumbling in her ear, quiet promises and assurances that don’t make any sense at all, particularly with David glowering at both of them.

“There wasn’t anything, Swan,” Killian says, not for the first time that day.

“That is impossible.”  
  
He chuckles against her hair. “Yeah, that seems to be the theme.”

“We didn’t do anything. We didn’t change a single thing.”  
  
“What?” David shouts, drawing the attention of several uniform officers. He waves them off, shifting on his feet and one of the streetlights above them flickers.

“Don’t do that,” Killian warns. His fingers are moving now, tiny semi circles on Emma’s shoulder that seem as natural as the breathing she desperately needs to do.

“I’m not doing anything. Why did you get here so fast?”  
  
“We were in the area.”  
  
“We?”  
  
Killian glares, turning Emma on the spot and resting both hands on her arms. She feels kind of dizzy. She assumes that’s a byproduct of time travel. It’s probably not.

It’s definitely not.

“Maybe we were wrong, love.”  
  
“You are lying to me,” Emma hisses. “Right to my face. You know this wasn’t a heart attack.”  
  
David curses again, stomping his foot for good measure. Emma doesn’t blink. Killian inhales sharply. “I don’t think we did it right, Swan,” he says, soft and cautious like speaking too loudly will make it real.

“Did what right?”  
  
“That noise. Whatever it was. It shouldn’t have been there. And I think it’s got something to do with us. And Graham.”  
  
Emma sighs, an agreement sitting on the tip of her tongue. She doesn’t say it. She’s far too busy crying.

Killian doesn’t flinch – again. Just lets her head crash into his chest and holds onto her, ignoring whatever sounds David is making as several different police officers try to get them to move. There’s a gurney working its way through the crime scene.

“C’mon, Swan,” Killian says. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

She lets him direct her back towards her apartment, never asking how he knows about hot chocolate or the cinnamon she sprinkles on top. She sits in the corner of her couch, crying even after the tears stop falling.

And they don’t try to come up with another plan.

There’s not anything to say.

Something is wrong.

They just don’t know what.

Emma has no idea what time it is when her eyes start to flutter, but it must be close to midnight, Killian shifting slightly next to her. Her heart stutters. “Hey, hey,” she says sharply, grasping at the side of his jeans like he’s about to disappear. “Don’t...um, don’t go. Please.”  
  
He turns slowly, staring at her with an expression she’ll probably think about every time she wakes up and just before she goes to sleep.

He nods.

“Yeah, ok, Swan.”

She falls asleep easily, her head on Killian’s thigh and his fingers toying with the ends of her hair and it’s almost enough that Emma doesn’t hear the scream as soon as the clock in her kitchen ticks twelve.

* * *

Emma wakes with a start, eyes scanning the room and there’s no one there.

She blinks, the frustrating sense of familiarity tugging at the back of her brain. There shouldn’t be anyone there. She’s home. In her apartment. Where she lives. Alone.

It’s...she can’t remember what day it is.

The phone on her nightstand is already ringing, a flash of color and vibrations and Emma hates the little lurch her heart makes when she notices the name.

_Killian Jones_.

She nearly knocks the phone on the ground in an effort to pick it up, slamming it against her ear. “Hi,” she says, and it comes out like a sigh.

“Hi.”  
  
“What day is it?”  
  
“My phone claims it’s September 12th.”  
  
Emma drops her phone.

She yanks the blankets away from her legs, staring wide-eyed at the pajamas she’s wearing again. Or still. Or, maybe, again. Words get confusing when time travel is involved.

And Emma has never hated a joke Christmas gift more in her entire life.

“Fuck.”

He’s yelling her name into the phone, loud enough that it nearly makes Emma laugh because the whole thing is absurd and impossible and they probably should have discussed leaving the past more. Emma just assumed it would...happen.

Magically.

God.

“Swan?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Emma mutters, nearly falling out of the bed as she gets her phone back to her ear. “Still here.”  
  
“So, uh, it appears we’ve done a few things wrong here, love.”  
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
“Was that a joke?”  
  
“Not an intentional one.” Killian hums, and Emma pinches the bridge of her nose, the threat of a headache pulsing behind her left eye. “Ok,” she continues. “So. What do we do? Are we sure it’s still September 12th?”  
  
“I really doubt my phone would lie to me. Or NY1.”  
  
“NY1 is incapable of lying. Did he read the newspapers?”  
  
“Same as they were yesterday.”  
  
“Holy shit.”  
  
“Those were my sentiments exactly.”

“What do we do?”  
  
Killian makes a noise, not quite words and something that sounds a hell of a lot like confusion. “Try to find something again? Maybe it’s a gift from the universe?”  
  
“That seems like an awfully chipper mindset.”  
  
“Ah, the power of positive thinking. Also I just watched the same news story about a school in Crown Heights that’s getting its first-ever playground for the second time in as many days and it’s done wonders to my mindset about the world.”  
  
Emma laughs, easy and normal. She imagines Killian smiles. “You want to come over and drink more of my coffee and come up with a plan that, this time, doesn’t suck?”  
  
“I thought you’d never ask, Swan.” 

* * *

 It takes a full week before Emma believes the plan is impossible.

The plan continues to suck. Or sucks even more and Emma is standing next to Killian at a crime scene she’s certain she can describe in minute detail at this point.

For the seventh straight day.

David stormed away from them in a huff five minutes before – as soon as Killian growled _walk away, Detective_ when David spotted his fingers wrapped around Emma’s – and no one’s paid them a second glance since. They’re standing stock still, a few inches of space between them, but Killian hasn’t tried to move his hand and Emma is gripping it like several metaphorical anchors.

She wonders why Graham looks so pale if it was a heart attack.

It wasn’t a heart attack.

“At what point do we just throw in the white flag?” Emma asks, not taking her eyes away from the coroner. His name is Victor. They learned that on the third day.

Killian turns towards her slowly, eyes frustratingly blue and decidedly distracting. His expression is unreadable. “Why would we do that?”

“There’s nothing here, Killian. We’ve searched every corner within fifty blocks. Nothing has changed. We haven’t done anything.”  
  
Emma’s voice cracks on the last word, an anger she’d been doing her best to avoid. And neither one of them have acknowledged the very real possibility that they may be stuck on September 12th for the rest of their lives.

They’ve got no escape plan.

She should have prepared better. She thought her magic would react better. Her magic, however, seems to be at the crux of Emma’s problems. It’s as if it’s developed its own rhythm in the last few days, a tide that’s coursing through every inch of her, warming her from the inside out and keeping her slightly off-kilter. It boils under her skin, a determination to do _something_ because they haven’t talked about that noise either.

The noise that pounds in Emma’s memory and lingers on the edge of her consciousness every single night. At midnight. Every single night.

“Maybe there isn’t anything to do,” Killian whispers, and Emma doesn’t miss the defeat there.

“Hence my white flag joke.”  
  
“You’ve got a habit of making very poorly timed jokes, love.”  
  
“It’s a very misplaced defense mechanism. I think it drives Mary Margaret insane.”  
  
“I sincerely doubt that.”  
  
She doesn’t need the rush of feeling shooting down her arm to know he means it, the honestly in his voice strong enough to permanent damage to the space-time continuum. He nearly smiles when she meets his gaze.

“That was nice,” Emma mutters.

“It happens from time to time.”  
  
She nods, pulse fluttering and Killian’s eyebrows shift when he feels the change in her magic. “I don’t know what we’re missing. There’s got to be something. What did we do wrong?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“I”ll be honest and tell you that’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

He laughs, more than a little sarcastic, and for one absolutely, insane moment Emma is certain he’s going to kiss her. He stares at her like he’s about to, eyes tracing over her face and lingering for a moment on her lips, but then he blinks and it’s over and they’re still stuck in some weird Groundhog Day situation with no new clues and a terrifying shriek to end every day.

She probably wouldn’t have argued the kiss.

The corner has to ask them to move out of the way of the gurney.

God.

“I think we’ve got some time to figure it out, Swan.”  
  
“Was that a joke?”  
  
“Probably worse than yours, right?”  
  
“Decidedly.”  
  
Killian grins, not quite as exhausted as it’s been while they’ve been chasing ghosts and possible magic and Emma chews on her lip to remind herself that they’re not really friends. She can’t figure out why he agreed to help her.

She can’t figure out how he’s not furious she’s inadvertently trapped them in the past.

“Hot chocolate?” he asks, and Emma nods out of habit and want. Killian’s smile widens. “Good. I’ve got some theories about marshmallow to chocolate ratio I want to test out.”

They eventually decide that the optimum number of marshmallows in a coffee mug is seven, which seems kind of arbitrary, but Killian is quick to point out that it’s _magical, Swan_ and Emma is willing to be charmed. So she doesn’t argue.

And she doesn’t say anything when, this time, he slides down next to her on the couch, pulling her flush against his chest with an arm around her waist and her hair in his eyes.

It’s comforting, safe and warm and a slew of positive adjectives that are probably as impossible as getting out of whatever loop they’re in because Emma’s breath catches as soon as her eyes close and the sound echoes off the walls of her apartment.

* * *

He finds her hide-a-key the next morning, letting himself into her apartment with a smile and coffee in hand. Emma blinks sixteen times at the sight.

“You’ve got to move that, Swan,” Killian says, groaning when he almost hands her his over-sugared coffee. “It took me almost no time to find.”  
  
“You’re a cop. And magic. You are literally made to find secret things.”  
  
“Made?”  
  
“Ask me that question again after I’ve finished the coffee.”  
  
Killian chuckles, dropping onto the edge of Emma’s bed. She watches him over the top of her coffee cup, a forced energy and certainty that should probably grate on her nerves more. She finds it kind of endearing.

Mostly because she’s kind of hoping he’s doing it for her.

She’s, like, seventy-five percent positive he’s doing it for her.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asks, and Killian arches an eyebrow.

“I saw that Crown Heights story again today.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I think we should take a day off from crime-fighting.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I think you heard me the first time, love,’ he drawls, letting his hand rest on her outstretched leg. “And if we’re going to be stuck here for awhile, then we’ve got some time to...do other things.”  
  
“That’s insane.”

“No,” Killian shakes his head. “That’s practical.”  
  
“How you figure?”  
  
“You hear the noise last night?”

Emma nearly chokes on her coffee, Killian’s expression turning serious. “Yeah, I did,” she says. “It sounded worse, didn’t it?”  
  
“Like it was getting ripped apart. So I think we’ve got to change our approach, Swan. We’ve exhausted this avenue of the search, it’s time to find something different.”  
  
“By ignoring the search completely.”  
  
“Yes, exactly that. You ever been to Veselka?”

“The pierogi place?”  
  
“I think they have other things besides pierogies,” Killian argues, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and it would be really nice to not spend an entire day thinking about death. “But the pierogies are supposed to be legendary. Or so the rumors say.”  
  
“You’ve never been there?”

The question lingers in the air around them, buoyed by mutual magic and possible hope and Emma burns her tongue when she all but gulps down the rest of her coffee. Killian shakes his head again.

“Not once. But I’ve got a deep appreciation of Polish food.”

Emma scoffs, still charmed. Consistently. For the past week. Despite the lingering scent of death. “I really like the idea of a mass quantity of potatoes stuffed into some kind of pasta thing.”

“It’s a date then.”  
  
“Is this you picking me up?”  
  
“Something like that.” Killian stands up, offering a hand and another smile, or possibly the same smile, and Emma’s going to let him move her hide-a-key. “Get showered and we’ll go. A whole day of doing things we’ve never done.”  
  
“You’re very optimistic.”  
  
He doesn’t answer, but Emma thinks she hears him say _something like that_ again as she turns on the water and they order every single pierogi option Veselka offers. The waitress looks at them like they’re insane.

They honestly might be.


	2. Part II

“I think Alex Turner is a vampire.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Alex Turner. I think he’s a vampire.”  
  
“You think the lead singer of Arctic Monkey’s is a vampire?”  
  
“Yes,” Emma nods, sitting cross legged in the middle of her apartment with a hand of cards clutched between her fingers. Killian gapes at her. “Don’t you?”  
  
“I can’t say that I’ve given much thought to Alex Turner since somewhere in the realm of 2010.”  
  
“That’s silly. They just released new music.”  
  
He laughs, a low, disbelieving sound and Emma likes to imagine he’s just as charmed by her. They’ve been doing this for nearly three weeks now – ignoring the real reason they came back in time because they’re still stuck in time and, every day, at seven o’clock David calls Killian’s phone to tell them that Graham is dead.

Sometimes they go to the scene. Sometimes Killian hangs up. Sometimes Emma gets on the phone and shouts and screams and cries about how absolutely unfair it is.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

It’s unfair and wrong and they’ve tried to find another spell, something that will send them home or anywhere that isn’t a day with that goddamn Crown Heights story and none of it works. They tried again three days before, candles and the moonstone clutched in Emma’s hand, but the walls shook and the candles flared out and she’d never felt _that_ empty before, as if every ounce of power had been forcibly yanked out of her soul.

The whole thing has been exhausting and overwhelming and Emma wishes her vocabulary was more expansive. She can’t come up with a better word than unfair.

They’ve been on the same loop with no end in sight and Emma’s starting to forget that actions have consequences. Hers haven’t in quite some time. They spend money like they’re never going to run out, got absolutely wasted thirteen days earlier only to wake up perfectly fine, and Emma set the snowflake pajama pants on fire six days before. She woke up wearing them the next day. 

Again.

Still.

Forever.

God, she hopes not.

“Swan,” Killian says, clearly not the first time he’s tried to get her attention. “I asked if you had any sixes, love. And why you’re still listening to Arctic Monkey’s.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Go fish.”  
  
“That’s not an answer to the second question.”  
  
“Why are you critiquing my music fandoms?”  
  
“I’m not. I’m interested in your music fandoms. And your apparent certainty that vampires exist.”  
  
“You are a person with magic,” Emma shouts, and she’s almost ready for his smile. Almost. That seems to be gaining more and more meaning the longer they stay stuck on the same day.

“That does not make me a vampire.”  
  
“Have you ever seen Alex Turner? Total vampire.”  
  
“I think that’s just him being British, love.”

She groans, rolling her whole head that time. “That’s a stereotype. You’ve never thought about it, though? Who may or may not be magic?”  
  
“What are you getting at?”  
  
Emma makes another noise, not entirely sure she has an answer. It’s just an idea and a hypothesis without any evidence to back it up, but the sound is still there and it’s been for three weeks. Killian puts his cards down.

“You’re thinking something,” he accuses, and Emma bristles at the words. “Every single thing you’re thinking, right on your face, Swan.”  
  
“That’s incredibly stupid.”  
  
“And your magic does that thing.”  
  
Emma tilts her head. “What thing?”  
  
It’s another enormous question and Killian’s entire face flushes nearly scarlet. He tugs on the hair behind his ear, another tell she’s started counting with the expressions and the way his hand always curls around her hip when they fall asleep on her couch.

They keep falling asleep on her couch.

“It...it shifts,” Killian says slowly. He’s staring at the ground, lying flat on his stomach and Emma isn’t sure whose pulse is beating louder. “When you’re certain of something or feeling something. It gets stronger and...louder.”  
  
“Louder?”

“Louder. Like I could hear it...anywhere.”

She isn’t holding her breath, but Emma exhales anyway, vision swimming through tears that make as much sense as suggesting the lead singer of a marginally popular British alternative band is a vampire.

Killian clears his throat. “What’s your question, Swan?”  
  
“Do you think someone could be magic and we didn’t realize?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Wow, that was a quick objection.”  
  
“We would know,” Killian says, an edge to his voice Emma’s never heard directed to her. It had been directed to David earlier that night. “Magic gives off a...we would know. No one’s powerful enough to disguise their own magic. That’s impossible.”

“I’m really beginning to think that word is just a great, big giant lie.”  
  
He doesn’t laugh immediately, but his gaze softens slightly and Emma drops her cards to reach forward and grab both his hands. They’re warm. “Yeah, it might be,” Killian concedes. “And I always kind of thought Christine McVie was a witch.”

“Christine McVie? Like Fleetwood Mac Christine McVie?”

“One and the same.”  
  
“That is...something.”  
  
Killian answering smile settles in the pit of Emma’s stomach and in between her ribs. It wraps its way around her heart and slinks into her bloodstream and neither one of them say anything when her magic turns on the light in the hall.

“Everyone always talks about Stevie Nicks,” Killian continues, twisting back upright and somehow keeping his hands wrapped in Emma’s. “And, you know, fair, but I think Christine McVie is a witch too. No doubt in my mind.”  
  
“You’re very certain.”  
  
“You ever listened to Songbird, Swan? Haunting. Chock-full of magic.”  
  
Emma is impossibly charmed. That kind of feels like magic too. She leans backwards, an awkward twist of limbs and her spine that probably would be uncomfortable if her magic weren’t doing whatever it’s doing.

She barely keeps a grip on her phone, thumb flying across the screen. The first few notes feel like they work into her and through her and Killian doesn’t move. He stares straight at Emma, with his tongue pressed into the side of his cheek.

Her magic appears to time up with the song.

That might be his magic.

The specifics probably don’t matter.

The matter a lot.

And they listen to the entire goddamn album, debating the merits of Don’t Stop and Second Hand News, Emma swaying back and forth to Dreams while the microwave heats the milk for her hot chocolate.

They decide The Chain is the best song. Hands down. And Emma isn’t sure when she decides, but it might be as soon as she opens her mouth and--”What if we didn’t sleep on the couch tonight?” she asks, Killian’s eyes bulging slightly at the question.

“Sure. I’d, uh, I’d like that.”  
  
“Ok. Good.”  
  
His hand finds its way back to her hip almost as soon as Emma twists against him, a mess of limbs and emotions that’s starting to become the center of everything, and she can’t help the tears that sting her eyes as soon as she opens them to find Killian gone when she wakes up. 

* * *

 “What’s your favorite place in the world?”  
  
“I haven’t been everywhere in the world.”  
  
Emma scowls, sitting in the hallway a few doors down from her apartment. Her legs are splayed out awkwardly in front of her, the sounds of crying coming from the apartment next to them and it was probably a mistake to go back to the crime scene. But David called again and Emma couldn’t shake the guilt of ignoring it and now she and Killian are sitting in the hallway with Mary Margaret crying and David stone faced and she can’t seem to stop sighing.

Her lungs are going to rise up in revolt.

“You’re being difficult on purpose,” Emma says, Killian already nodding.

“It’s a coping mechanism.”  
  
“You didn’t feel anything different?”  
  
He makes a dismissive noise, letting his foot fall against Emma’s ankle. He keeps twisting his fingers, a crackle of magic in the air around him like anxious energy and they’ve been here for nearly five weeks now.

They’ve started exploring the city, long walks that cover dozens of blocks every day, but there hasn’t been anything. No more clues. No more signs. Just a phone call, like clockwork.

And Emma isn’t sure what will happen when they do, eventually, get home.

Because, at some point between Go Fish and Fleetwood Mac and wandering around SoHo that afternoon, Killian Jones has found his way into the very middle of everything, a quiet presence and certainty and the idea of losing that leaves her somewhere close to breathless.

He stops moving his fingers. “The face thing, Swan.”  
  
“Are you pointing out that I have one?  
  
“Where’s your favorite place in the world?”  
  
Emma shrugs, quick and dismissive because she definitely hasn't been anywhere in the world and for as much as they’ve learned about each other in the last month and a half, there are still _things_ and _secrets_ and she’s terrified of the word alone.

She’s terrified of feeling alone.

Again.

She hasn’t in awhile.

Five weeks, in fact.

“Ah, so I see, you get to ask questions, but you don’t like the questions asked of you?” Killian asks, a poor attempt at humor. Emma glances at him, half a smile on his face and a flash of magic lingering above his right shoulder.

“Why did you agree to come back with me? Really.”  
  
Killian startles at the abrupt conversational switch. Emma can’t blame him. She’d all but barked out the question at him, a sudden desperation to know, if only so she could better prepare herself for the inevitable fall out.

He doesn’t actually stand up, shuffling forward on his knees, which in any other situation would be almost hysterical, but Emma’s teetering on that brink again, nervous and lonely and alone feels like it’s hammering at every inch of her skull. The magic in the air around her isn’t hers.

It isn’t Killian’s.  
  
It tastes like death.

“Swan,” Killian breathes, a hand on her cheek when the tears start to fall. “C’mon, look at me, love. Why the twenty questions?”  
  
“I think these are pretty basic questions, actually.”  
  
“That you’re only asking now.”  
  
She inhales sharply, the oxygen falling to do its job entirely. “I don’t know how to fix this. Graham is...that’s not a heart attack, but he was so pale. Every single time we see him. Like he’s been...drained or something and none of that makes sense and the sound is still there. Every night. It’s getting louder, don’t you think?” Killian nods slowly, as if he doesn’t want to agree, and Emma’s lungs _hate_ her. “It is,” she continues. “And I can hear it still. All the time. Like it’s taunting me and waiting for me to...I don’t know, mess up or keep us locked in the past forever and I can’t--”

The words die in the back of her throat and Killian rocks back on his heels when she slams into his chest. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue or contradict, just lets Emma fall, tears leaving his shirt damp.

Time hasn’t meant much of anything in the last few weeks, but it means even less then, stretching out and giving them a chance to linger in each other’s space. Killian’s hands move, the same pattern it always is, and Emma’s mind latches onto that, a soft confidence in a sea of uncertainty and fear and it takes her a moment to realize he’s whispering against her hair.

“What?”  
  
“I said, let’s get out of here,” Killian says, brushing Emma’s hair away from her eyes with a tenderness that makes her magic practically roar. His ears go red.

“But...David and Mary Margaret? They’re…”  
  
“They’ll deal, love. They’ll wake up tomorrow and won’t even remember this. Let’s go.”

Emma doesn’t have the energy to argue, letting Killian pull her up, an arm around her waist and more words pressed into her hair. And for a few blocks, it seems as if they’re going back towards his apartment, but then he’s turning her down a different street and it’s always confusing once they get off the grid.

The city suddenly feels distinctly different and oddly similar, that same sense of déjà vu lurking in the back of Emma’s brain. It’s still the middle of September, so there aren’t any Halloween decorations or even a hint of color in the leaves, but the air feels crisper somehow, like it’s thicker or more meaningful and they keep on walking.

She can’t help but laugh when she realizes where they are.

“This is macabre,” Emma mutters, nearly slamming into Killian’s side when he skids to a stop in front of Trinity Church.

“Quiet, it’s quiet.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s how the lyrics to the song go.”

He glances at her, amusement flickering in his gaze and she’d forgotten he was holding her hand. It’s easier to remember when he squeezes it slightly. “You asked me my favorite place, well, here we are.”  
  
“Your favorite place, in the whole entire world, is the graveyard of Trinity Church?”  
  
“We can’t actually get into the graveyard.”  
  
“Are you scared about getting arrested?” Emma asks, more laughter threatening. “Again, I don’t think that’s going to matter once we hit midnight.”  
  
“No, no, although it does seem strange to suggest I wouldn’t be upset about being arrested,” Killian says. “It’s more a...respect thing.”

Any laughter evaporates immediately.

Emma nods, lips pressed together tightly, an odd counterbalance to the questions that are practically begging to be asked.

“Go ahead,” Killian mutters.

“What?”  
  
“Every thought, love. Every single one.”  
  
“This is your favorite place? Honestly?”  
  
He makes a dismissive noise, letting go of her hand to sling his arm over her shoulders instead. He’s still impossibly warm, a direct opposite to the chill in the air and Emma realizes rather suddenly it’s the first time they’ve ventured out of her apartment at night since this all started.

That feels strangely important.

“My favorite place in the city,” Killian corrects softly. “As previously discussed I haven’t been everywhere in the world, seems like an unfair question to ask.”  
  
“How is a graveyard your favorite place in the city? That’s insane.”  
  
“No, no, it’s not. It’s historic.”  
  
“Explain that.”  
  
“You know Eliza Hamilton was absolutely a witch.”  
  
Emma jerks back, positive the disbelief has settled onto every inch of her face when she sees Killian’s smile. “That wasn’t in the musical either.”  
  
“No, I don’t suppose it would be. She lived almost a hundred years, at a time when people were regularly dying in their twenties. She accomplished more than just about anyone else of her stature or--”  
  
“--Gender.”  
  
“You’re not wrong.”  
  
“The colonial patriarchy was horrendous.”  
  
“You’ll find that’s true throughout most of history, actually.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes at the shift in his tone, a hint of _something_ that feels like longing and sounds a bit like magic. “Do you have a crush on Eliza Hamilton?”  
  
Killian’s laugh is so loud several birds fly out of the nearest tree. It’s decidedly spooky. “I mean, I might, honestly,” he admits. “But that’s not entirely my fault.”  
  
“Explain that too.”

“How much do you actually know about me before David decided to adopt me?”  
  
Emma’s glad all the birds have already flown away. The rush of her magic would probably freak them out. Animals are always particularly attuned to that. “Not much,” she says. “I don’t...I’m sorry about that.”  
  
“This wasn’t an elongated guilt trip, Swan. Just trying to figure out where to start the story.”  
  
“The beginning always seems like a good spot.”  
  
It’s unlikely that Killian’s magic makes his eyes bluer, but Emma’s grasp on reality is tenuous at best at this point, so she’s not sure she’s an accredited source on the subject. And he keeps his arm around her when he tugs her towards the nearest bench.

He does, in fact, start at the beginning – an older brother and slightly witchy mother, hereditary magic that terrified his father. “I don’t remember much of him,” Killian says. “But I remember him leaving and he told me to go to sleep and turned off the light and then he never came back.”

He tells her about days spent alone in an apartment that was barely big enough for one person, let alone three magical beings, and Liam used to bring him downtown to _work our legs and make sure we didn’t inadvertently blow anything up_. He tells her about history and memorized facts and learning about as many magical beings who’d ever set foot on the island of the Manhattan, if only to feel like they were close to something.

And for a few moments it’s a nice story. It’s a family and Emma’s smiling, but then Killian’s voice hitches and the story changes and it’s not so nice anymore.

There’s death and disappointment and accidents, magical or otherwise because they never really knew what happened to his mother, but Killian’s always had his suspicions.

“And no proof at all,” he adds, the sarcasm Emma’s nearly forgotten about returning to his voice. “But that was part of the reason I got involved in the force. Figured I’d do...something. Liam couldn’t stand being in the city anymore.”  
  
The story gets worse after that.

Liam enlists in the Navy and it’s only a few months later, an accident on the water and he drowns and it’s decidedly unmagical and decidedly permanent and Emma knows her tears are ridiculous, it’s not her story, but Killian’s voice doesn’t shake over that part and it’s, somehow, even more heartbreaking than she expects.

“That’s kind of why I agreed,” he explains. “Because you were right. No one deserves to die alone and no one deserves to have their death swept aside like it’s somehow...acceptable. You just figured out a plan of attack before I could.”

She doesn’t expect the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth when he finishes either.

“What?”

“I can feel that,” he breathes, nodding towards the rhythm she’s beating out against her thigh. There’s light emanating from her fingertips.

“Loud?”  
  
He shakes his head. “Not in the way you’re suggesting. It’s kind of...warm?”  
  
“That was a question.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it sounded weird in my head.”  
  
“Not weird,” Emma promises. “I mean, I’ve gotten us stuck in the past and we’re probably going to go insane from this loop we’re stuck in and--”  
  
“--And that’s not what happened, Swan.”

“No?”  
  
“No. Why did Mary Margaret and David adopt you?”  
  
She startles at that – an entirely fair question after weeks spent together and stories shared, but Emma’s not great at emotions or feeling or _believing_ , like, at all. She believes him. And she believes in him. So she tells him. Every single moment of the decidedly depressing story. Every house and lack of family and lack of _anyone_ , the certainty that no one wanted her because of her magic. And he doesn’t interrupt, but his face changes every now and then, a twist of his lips or a blink that brands itself on Emma’s memory.

At some point he starts toying with the ends of her hair, a quiet comfort that might be another tell, and her voice is hoarse by the end of it all, lips dry and eyes frustratingly not dry.

Killian still doesn’t say anything.

“So, uh, that’s it,” Emma says lamely. “Some sob story, huh?”  
  
“I don’t think that’s what it is.”

“No?”  
  
“No. I think it’s absolutely God awful and nothing you could have ever possibly deserved, but I don’t think it’s a bad story. It got you here.”  
  
“Stuck in the past.”  
  
“With me.”  
  
“Because you agreed to come with me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian nods, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines him moving closer. The air does that thing again. It might be her magic. “I did.”  
  
“I don’t know how to fix this.”  
  
“We’ll figure it out.”  
  
“You sound very certain.”  
  
He nods again. He’s definitely gotten closer. Emma licks her lips. “In you,” Killian says, and, well, that does it. The Eliza Hamilton thing kind of did it too, but that feels a little weird to say out loud and Emma surges up before she can consider anything except kissing Killian.

As first kisses go while stuck in the past investigating a possible magical crime, it’s a pretty goddamn fantastic one.

Killian responds almost immediately, fingers carding through Emma’s hair and tongue tracing across her lower lip. And if she were hoarding tells, then she’s now some kind of _sound_ pack rat. Every single one he makes – sharp inhales and quiet groans, trying to pull Emma closer until she’s all but straddling him on the goddamn bench – is an emotional spark, moving around them and through them, until Emma can actually see the flicker of their magic.

It’s too much and not enough, a frustrating contradiction that absolutely does not belong in the moment. She rolls her hips, determined to push the moment ahead, and it works another groan out of Killian, pulling his mouth away from hers.

Emma has every intention of objecting to that, but then his lips are dragging across her jaw and the column of her neck and she can hardly breathe, let alone complain about anything. She’s certain he’s leaving marks in his wake, teeth nipping at the edge of her shirt and the jut of her collarbone.

And Emma can feel the flush of heat, sudden and not entirely unexpected because it also feels a bit like magic, but she can also hear the tick of the clock and the toll of the bell in the steeple nearby because it’s midnight.

“Ah, fuc--” Emma groans, catching Killian’s lips with her own to try and drown out the shriek ringing in her ears.

* * *

Emma doesn’t jump out of bed, but it’s dangerously close, sprinting through her apartment. The door’s already open.

Killian catches her when she practically launches herself at him. He laughs against her mouth, kisses turning greedy and desperate as soon as her right leg twists around his left. He’s not holding anything, which is probably a rather small miracle, but Emma’s tearing at the front of his shirt anyway, mumbled demands to _get this off_ pressed against his skin.

“I need you to keep kissing me, actually,” Killian mutters. It’s definitely magic. His eyes are absolutely magic. God, she hates that she even thought that.

“Take your shirt off first.”  
  
“That is decidedly commanding.”  
  
“Yes.”

He noses at her jaw, smile obvious when he moves back towards her neck. “Ah, gone already.”  
  
“That is weirdly possessive.”  
  
“Is that not a magical trait?”  
  
“Maybe you’re the vampire,” Emma challenges. “Biting and--”  
  
“--There is no biting, love. Nipping at worst. Worshipping at best.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“What was this about kissing me more?”  
  
“I thought we agreed to take the shirt off. And the pants. Like. Ten minutes ago.”  
  
“I could only get over here so fast,” Killian laughs, walking them back towards Emma’s bed with an upper body strength that would be impressive if he weren’t still wearing so many clothes.

They do, eventually, get the clothes off, a small pile littering Emma’s hallway, and she spends no less than twenty minutes kissing him. It’s nice. It’s better than nice. It’s a whole lot of everything.

Emma’s vocabulary is still a little stunted.

Particularly when Killian moves, hovering above her with his fingers trailing across the top of her thigh and any thought that isn’t him and _them_ disappears as soon as he breathes _Swan_ in her ear.

They don’t leave the bed.

Emma barely notices the noise that night.

* * *

Time stops meaning much eventually. The days blur – particularly with hours spent in bed and walks around the city and Emma learns more about Killian Jones than she knew she could ever want to learn about another person.

She desperately wants to know more.

She desperately wants to go home.

She wants to live a life. With Killian Jones.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exciting.

He glances at her when he feels the jump in her magic. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Swan?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Killian stares at her, the objection obvious in his expression. “You want to order something later? Indian? We’ll get ten servings of naan and really scandalize the guy.”  
  
“Yeah, ok.”  
  
He wants to ask more questions. She can tell. He doesn’t. She appreciates that.

She should probably figure out how to tell him she loves him at some point.

* * *

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”  
  
“How is this different than what I asked you?”  
  
“You asked what my favorite place was, Swan. This is a completely different question.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, propping her head up on her hand. “When I was a kid, I always thought it’d be the epitome of glamor to go to Paris.”  
  
“Paris?”  
  
“It’s fancy. It’s rich. It was...you know, Europe. Seemed like some distant possibility. Why?”  
  
“I’m curious.”  
  
The whole not telling him she’s in love with him is becoming increasingly problematic.

* * *

She notices the story on a Tuesday morning, Killian in the kitchen and critiquing Emma’s coffee selection. Emma doesn’t say anything at first, not sure her suspicion is right, but she’s always been good at _instinct_ and she grabs the closest notebook she can find.

The words are gone when she wakes up on Wednesday, but Emma remembers and has remembered and she starts over while Killian makes coffee.

Again.

* * *

“If you think any harder, your face is going to get stuck like that.”  
  
Emma glares, grabbing another piece of naan because they keep ordering naan. The delivery guy never remembers them. “That’s mean,” she counters, taking an exaggerated bite. “And stop that face thing, it’s distracting.”  
  
“Are you distracted by my face, Swan?”  
  
“What day do you think it is?”  
  
Killian tilts his head. “I hate to tell you this, love, but it’s still the same day it’s been for quite some time.”  
  
“No, no, I know that. I mean, like, if we were counting the days we’ve been here and fast-forwarded back to what it should be in the real timeline, when do you think it would be?”  
  
“I’m not following.”  
  
Emma pushes the sheet of paper she’d been drawing on towards him and Killian lets out a low whistle at her slightly shaky math. “I think it’s Halloween,” she says. “You know, again.”

“And that means….”  
  
“I’ve had an idea.”  
  
“Several by the look on your face.”  
  
Emma sighs, another far too big bite of naan that threatens to choke her before she get into the details of her plan. Killian smirks in response, sinking next to her and turning down the volume on the TV. It suddenly feels very official. “You’re still kind of being a jerk,” Emma mumbles. The smirk intensifies. It’s probably magic too.

“What are you thinking?”  
  
“I think we watched NY1 this morning.” Killian hums, fingers already toying with her hair. “And I think after that Crown Heights story there was something else in Brooklyn.”  
  
His fingers still. “About?”  
  
“A questionable power surge in Fort Hamilton.”  
  
“Did they say what the cause was?”  
  
“The NY1 morning crew was very intrigued, but failed to offer any explanation whatsoever.”  
  
“No wonder journalism is dying.”  
  
“I think we should go to Fort Hamilton,” Emma says. “Now. Because I think Graham’s body got moved. And I don’t think it was originally in Manhattan.”  
  
Killian stares at her for a moment – an appraising look that leaves Emma ducking her eyes and wondering if she’s, finally, lost her mind completely. He doesn’t appreciate that though, thumb tucked under her chin and it’s all but impossible to hold her emotions in check when he looks at her like that.

It doesn’t matter. Her magic reacts anyway.

“How good are you at hailing cabs?” Killian asks, standing up and offering Emma his hand immediately. She takes it.

“I’ve got a quicker way. Close your eyes and don’t let go of me.”

She winces when her feet land – not because of the landing, but because Killian’s gripping her hard enough that there are probably finger-shaped marks on her arms. “You can let go, babe,” she mumbles, the endearment falling out of her mouth like that’s an acceptable thing and they aren’t, maybe, _finally_ , making some headway in an investigation they’ve only barely paid attention to in the last week.

Killian’s head snaps up, all blue-eyed and open-mouthed and he’s totally going to kiss her. The lights flicker. Emma flexes her fingers.

“Give a man some warning before you apparate us to the battle, ok?” Killian asks lightly, and Emma nods. She can’t do anything else.

The air around them is stagnant, like stale water and algae. The lights continue to flicker as Emma tries to figure out where they are, a warehouse that looks a bit like storage and maybe something kind of Navy-esque and the world is a giant joke.

Apparently.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Emma mutters. “This is…”  
  
She doesn’t finish – another flash of light and surge of power and the smell in the air grows stronger. Like it’s getting desperate. Or trying harder.  

And then it comes.

The shriek ricochets off the walls and the beams above their head. It drapes itself over both Emma and Killian, a chill that slinks down her spine and leaves her magic little more than a flicker at the tips of her fingers.

It doesn’t stop. It sounds like it’s on a loop, every bit of noise grating on every one of Emma’s nerves and she squeezes her eyes closed, desperate to keep _that_ word away from her mind.

Alone.

_Alone. Alone. Alone._

_You’ve always been alone_.

Emma feels as if she’s just run a marathon. Her head falls forward, neck unable to support the weight anymore, and Killian’s arms are limp around her. He mumbles something against her temple, lips barely moving and words barely audible over the echo of Emma’s fears rattling around her skull.

“That’s not true,” Emma argues, but the words sound weak and pitiful. She flutters her fingers, trying to find a bit of confidence and groans when nothing happens.

It takes a moment to realize what is, actually, happening.

“Give me your hand, love,” Killian says. She doesn’t move, feels as if there’s something wrapping around her, bonds and obstacles, and Killian’s laugh sounds foreign when he pulls her hand up towards hers.

And puts the moonstone in her palm.

“Don’t let go of that.”

“Ok,” Emma whispers. He smiles at her. And the footsteps sound impossibly loud behind them.

She’s wearing heels, which seems incredibly impractical, but Emma’s only a little worried she’s having several different panic attacks at once and Killian keeps trying to push her behind him.

Regina Mills is not inherently famous.

She’s famous in that she’s on NY1 regularly because she’s a big name at One Police and there have been murmurings for years that she’s on the shortlist for next commissioner. Emma’s only seen in her passing at a handful of events that require both David and Killian to wear dress blues, but it’s easy to recognize her and her voice has a resounding, bell-like quality when she starts to speak.

Or monologue.

Villains always monologue.

“I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time, Ms. Swan,” Regina says, as if they’re late to a dinner party or NYPD fundraiser. “I really wish you’d stop trying to move her, Detective Jones. It’s not going to make much of a difference, after all.”  
  
Emma can’t actually hear Killian’s eyebrow arch, but she knows it does. “That so?” he asks.

Regina smiles – slowly, with an obvious threat and her nails are impossibly red. “Oh, I guarantee it. See, it’s finally different. Can’t you feel it?”  
  
“Different how?” Emma asks.

Killian’s other eyebrow joins the first, a noise in the back of his throat when Emma tries to take a step forward. Regina laughs.

“That. How can you not tell? You’re living it.”  
  
“Speak in full, complete sentences,” Emma seethes. “Where’s Graham?”  
  
“Oh, he’s here. Anxiously awaiting your arrival, I’d imagine. He can wait though.”  
  
“Why?”

“You’re rather impatient, Ms. Swan. That won’t serve me well at all.”  
  
“I’m not here on your schedule.”

The air snaps – actually _snaps_ and there’s suddenly fire sitting in Regina’s palm and light between Emma’s fingers and Killian’s arm flies out in front of her, a sudden shine and burst of power between all three of them.

“I’m afraid that isn’t quite true,” Regina counters. “You’re what’s going to make all the difference. Honestly. You can’t feel that?”  
  
“Feel what?” Killian shouts.

“You know, I wondered if Mr. Humbert felt the same way you do, Detective. That was part of the reason I went for him first. I thought his connection would be stronger, more helpful for me. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“How much do you know about me, Detective?”  
  
“You’ve got your sights set on the commissioner's job.”  
  
“And my magic?”  
  
Killian doesn’t respond – a silence that’s louder than anything he could have actually said. Regina looks delighted.

“I’ve worked very hard on that, you know,” she says, moving closer towards them and both Emma and Killian lift their hands. “Didn’t want any suggestions that I’d come about my power through unjust means. But imagine it, a magical being in control of the police department. It’s a rather delightful thought, don’t you think?”  
  
“What does that have to do with Graham?” Emma demands. “You killed him!”  
  
“Yes, and that was unfortunate. But if you’d let me finish, I can explain why that had to happen.” Emma practically growls, Killian’s arm wrapping around her waist. Regina’s tongue darts between her lips. “As I was saying,” she continues. “I’ve been practicing my magic since I was a girl. There was...that was the way I was raised. My mother had rather lofty goals for us, you understand. She wanted me to lead this city, to change things, but she didn’t want me to get distracted by other...menial things.”  
  
“Menial,” Emma echoes. “Like?”  
  
“Love, obviously.”  
  
Emma blinks. “You loved someone?”  
  
“Oh, now, Ms. Swan we hardly know each other well enough for you to be quite that offensive.”

“What happened to your boyfriend?”  
  
“My mother killed him.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me,” Regina says, a lack of emotion that makes Emma shiver. “She killed him, saw him as a distraction I couldn’t afford. I, naturally, disagreed, but I was young and nowhere near powerful enough to do anything about it. So I waited. I bided my time and after my mother killed that witch who used to clean our rooms, I knew I could do the same.”  
  
“You killed your mother?” Emma asks. Her head is spinning – possibly because Killian’s arm has turned vice-like around her waist. And she doesn’t think before she turns her back on the goddamn villain of the story, a witch in disguise who has already proven she’s more than willing to kill other magical beings. “Killian,” she whispers, and he flinches when her hand rests on his cheek. “Babe. What--”  
  
“--What was that woman’s name?” he snaps.

Regina crosses her arm. Her lipstick matches her nails. “Oh, you know the answer to that already, Detective. My mother wanted her power. Thought she could absorb it and transfer it and it almost worked, but...again, she wasn’t me.”  
  
“You want to transfer Graham’s power?” Emma shouts, spinning back around so quickly she nearly falls over her own feet. “To what? Who?”  
  
“Daniel. I’m bringing back Daniel.”

The lights flicker again, a crack that’s probably figments breaking and electricity surging and Emma is frustrated to realize she can’t move. She tries, but those invisible bounds tighten around her ankles and her lungs pinch in her chest, a distinct lack of available air.

“How did you end up here, though?” Emma presses, and if she can’t fight, she can, at least, talk. “You said you were waiting for us.”  
  
Regina hums. “Oh, I was. You see, it didn’t work at first. Graham’s power was...lacking. And I couldn’t bring Daniel back. The heart withered in my hands and I sent your friend's body...somewhere. I just, well, I wanted him away from me. But then, wouldn’t you know, I got word that Detective Jones was doing a little off the books research.”  
  
Killian tenses behind Emma, head falling against the top of her hair. “How did you know that?”  
  
“Try to keep up, Detective, I know everything.”

“Prove it.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groans. She’s not even remotely surprised he’s antagonizing the villain.

“Gladly,” Regina continues. “I heard about your research, and discovered that you and Ms. Swan were spotted at your building a few days before Halloween. And then, wouldn’t you know? I felt the pull of Ms. Swan’s magic on Halloween. It’s rather strong on its own, but, oh my, with you as well, Detective, practically unstoppable.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And your little time travel spell pulled me along with you. I’d imagine that’s why we’re trapped in this loop. I wanted a chance to try again and you all provided it for me.”  
  
Emma’s whole body drops under the force of her exhale – an understanding that she doesn’t appreciate at all because it was all her fault and is all her fault and Regina thought she could use Graham’s feelings for _her_ to revive her goddamn dead boyfriend.

“Holy fuck,” Emma gasps. “That is….insane.”  
  
“It was your time travel spell, Ms. Swan. I’m just an innocent bystander.”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s possible at all, honestly.”

Killian snickers, something that might actually be a kiss against her hair. “But you’re still here,” he challenges. “So it hasn’t worked yet, has it? Have you just kept killing Graham?”  
  
“What else would I do?” Regina shrugs.

Emma doesn’t think. Her vision goes red and there’s ringing in her ears, a flash of white light flying out of her palm that sends a rush of _everything_ up her entire arm. Everything kind of falls apart after that.

There are fireballs and bursts of warm energy, lights crashing and beams groaning, the walls of the warehouse quivering under the force of their collective magic.

Regina stumbles back when something hits her and Killian nods as soon as Emma spins towards him. “Go, Swan.”

She sprints forward, not sure where she’s going, but she can feel a hint of slightly foreign magic and Graham Humbert, a man she’s known for years because Mary Margaret and David have adopted nearly every magical being in the Manhattan area, looks absolutely horrible.

His shirt is ripped, bruises on his face and breath coming in pants. He startles when he hears the footsteps, but his eyes widen when he realizes it’s Emma.

“No, no, no, you can’t be here,” Graham chants, trying to pull away when Emma moves towards him. “She’s going to kill you, Emma.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Are you?” Emma challenges, waving her hand and the magic wrapped around Graham does _not_ appreciate that. “Shit, what the hell did she do to you?”

“Emma, listen to me, she is unhinged. She’s...she’s got my heart somewhere and she’s going to take yours too.”  
  
“I’m serious. Shut up, I’m trying to figure out how to get you out of here.”  
  
“Your heart,” Graham repeats. “She wants your heart because she wants your power. She wants your True Love.”

Emma freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Graham's laugh shakes its way out of him, leaving him a coughing, shaking mess that’s not helping their escape cause at all and Emma still has no idea how to get them back to the present. “You’re an idiot,” he says fondly.

“Is this an actual conversation we’re having right now? I am trying to save your life! I time traveled for this!”  
  
“I think you kind of time traveled your way into True Love too, Em. Your magic didn’t feel that way yesterday.”  
  
Emma huffs, disbelief and a refusal that don’t make sense because she _wants_ with her whole being and soul and she should have told him she loved him before she apparated them out of her apartment. The moonstone in her hand feels very heavy.

And it’s half a second too long.

Graham cries out and Emma doesn't know where to look. She can _feel_ Killian, the fear settling in her and threatening to pull her through the ground and out into Gravesend Bay.

“Swan, you’ve got to move,” Killian yells. He’s grimacing when she turns towards him, a rip in the center of his shirt that wasn’t there when she ran away.

“No, no, no, no,” Emma whispers. Regina is smiling again.

“I’m afraid you’re too late, Ms. Swan. Boyfriend wasn’t quite as quick on the uptake when he was so worried about you. It’s nice. It’s not a particularly good way to win a fight, but it’s nice all the same.”

Killian falls to his knees when Regina tightens her grip on the heart in her right hand. The tears fall hot and quick on Emma’s cheeks, nails digging into her palm in some misplaced attempt to ground herself.

“Emma,” Graham says. “You’ve got to go. You’ve got to get out of here.”  
  
She shakes her head, not sure what, exactly, she’s objecting to. It might be everything. “No, I...we came back to save you. You shouldn’t...you’re dead. At home. You’ve been dead for weeks and I couldn’t--

“You can’t change that, Em.”  
  
“Watch me!”  
  
“Emma,” Graham chastises, and she briefly wonders if she’ll ever stop crying. “If I’m dead, then I’m dead. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“That’s stupid.”  
  
“You’re the most stubborn person I know.” He laughs again, a soft thing that turns into a groan when Regina changes her heart-based torture approach. Killian’s talking again, but Emma can barely make out the words, staring at Graham, like he’ll agree to come back with them or figure out how to get his heart back in his chest.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Emma whispers. “You shouldn’t--”  
  
“--I’m not. At least not anymore.”  
  
Emma lets out a sob, eyes closing lightly and she doesn’t realize at first. It’s that quick. Her head snaps up when she realizes there’s a distinct lack of magic around her though, and Regina’s laugh is the loudest noise she’s ever heard.

Graham is dead.

Again.

Still.

It doesn’t matter.

And Emma refuses to think – again or still or _whatever_ – just launches herself forward with a sneer and no magic whatsoever. She stops as soon as Regina blinks, lips curling up as Emma’s feet lift off the floor.

“Ah, ah, ah, Ms. Swan,” Regina says, shaking her hand of the dust that was Graham’s heart. “You’re at a bit of a disadvantage. Humbert is dead and I’ve got that little bit of leverage on you now, don’t I? I’d rather have your heart, but I’d settle for your boyfriend’s. So, tell me, what’s your choice? Give up yourself to the power of love or--” She nods towards Killian, still on his knees with his forehead pressed against the ground. “Watch your boyfriend die in front of you? I’d advise that the second isn’t all that enjoyable. Speaking from personal experience.”

“You’ve got to go, Swan,” Killian says, not lifting his head. “Now. You can do it. Just...the words and the stone and…”  
  
He groans when Regina’s hand tightens, clicking her tongue in reproach. “None of that, Detective. No badgering the witness.”  
  
Emma isn’t breathing. Her lungs feel like they’re on fire, head swimming and tears falling and the magic in her veins practically _soars_ as soon as she decides. It wasn’t really much of a choice. Because he’d already chosen her.

He’d come back with her.

“So you wouldn’t be alone, love,” Killian says. His voice is strained, blood on his cheek from a cut that seems to be growing with every passing moment. Emma opens her mouth, questions and--”Everything you’re thinking, clear as day on your face, Emma.”  
  
She lets out a watery laugh, waving both her hands in the air to land back on her feet. It’s as powerful as she’s ever felt, a push and a want and a _warmth_ that feels like home and smells like clear, blue skies and brightly colored leaves and, probably, waves or something equally calming and the same color as Killian’s eyes.

Emma drops down in front of him, fingers tingling with the remnants of her own magic and Regina bangs her hands on a barrier that wasn’t there a few moments earlier. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” Emma warns. She twists her wrist again, closing her eyes and focusing on what she wants and holding a heart in her hand is, easily, the strangest thing she’s ever done.

“Just...gentle,” Killian starts, but the words get caught in his throat when he groans.

She more or less slammed her heart back into place.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,”  Emma stammers. “I...well, I thought it’d be like a band-aid and it’s…”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
He kisses her, pushing up and ignoring the state of his knees and Emma pulls in as much oxygen as she possibly can. The magic around them is like staring into the sun, a burst of light and energy and feeling and Emma can’t hear whatever noise Regina is making.

* * *

Emma sits bolt upright, eyes wide and breathing a distinct challenge. She’s in her apartment. Someone is banging on her door.

“Emma,” David yells. “Emma, I know you’re in there! I can still hear your TV!”

She runs a hand over her face, desperate for something else, some sign that it wasn’t a dream or fake and the moonstone crashes to the floor when she moves her hand.

Emma moves in slow motion, leaning down to pick it up and she’d never noticed the tiny engraving in the corner.  _AJ_.

“Alice Jones,” Emma whispers. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

She's standing before her legs are entirely ready for it, leaving her phone where it’s laying on her coffee table and David stumbles back when she nearly crashes into him. He catches her around the waist, staring at her like she’s a ghost.

“What day is it?” Emma yells.

“What?”  
  
“What day, David? What day is it?”  
  
“It’s...Halloween. Listen, Em, what the hell was that email about? Mary Margaret is worried you’re losing your mind.”

Emma doesn’t answer, she’s already running. She sprints up the street, dodging costume-wearing pedestrians and ignoring the growing ache in her side. It’s really unfair that after all those walks through the city, she’s not in better shape.

She drags her entire hand down the call board in Killian’s apartment lobby, bobbing on her toes as she waits for someone to let her in. She honestly forgets she could use her magic. But the door’s hardly started to buzz before Emma swings it open, moving again and her legs are protesting all of this now too.

The elevator is a luxury her patience can’t afford, and Emma takes the stairs two at a time. She has to pause in the stairwell, leaning against the door to, she hopes, the right hallway, and her magic flares to life when she hears footsteps approaching.

His eyes are wide when they meet Emma’s, hair disheveled like he just woke up, but he’s also looking at her and he’s _looking at her_.

Like he’s supposed to.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, moving slowly like she’s a figment of his imagination.

“Tell me something. Something that would prove it, something you’d only know if that was real.”  
  
“That was real, love. I…”  
  
“Tell me,” Emma repeats, and it’s treading dangerously close to begging.

Killian nods slowly. “Your hide-a-key is tucked under the corner of some loose carpeting in front of your door. You have a box of linguini that you can’t remember actually buying in the cabinet above your oven. You want to go to Paris.”  
  
His smile is cautious at best and nervous at worst, fingers twisting with the effort to stop himself from touching her. She still hasn’t said it.

That’s insane.

Emma’s, like, ninety-nine percent positive their True Love magic got them back to the right timeline. And kept Regina trapped in the wrong time line.

“You gave me your mom’s moonstone,” Emma whispers, and Killian’s eyes get even wider. “To...because…”  
  
He nods again. “All of the above, Swan.”

They move quickly after that, a mess of lips and limbs and fingers moving through hair. Killian bends his knees at some point, tugging Emma even closer to his chest as her arms wrap around his neck and it’s, somehow, still not close enough.

She pulls apart, only to move back in. He tries to kiss every inch of her neck and just behind her ear, a spot he’d found at some point in the past, which is a very strange sentence and Emma’s magic is racing.

And the words feel as if they’re falling out of her – the same way her first question about time travel did. Because she trusts Killian and wants Killian and he came back with her.

He came back for her.

“Say that again,” Killian mutters, an intensity in his voice that’s far more attractive than it probably should be.

Emma beams. Possibly literally. “I love you.”  
  
He makes some sort of ridiculous noise – a _whoop_ and a groan and there’s more kissing and moving and, that time, they leave a trail of clothes in his apartment. Killian tells her he loves her no less than forty-nine times.

Seven squared. For extra magic.

Or so he says.

It makes Emma laugh.

* * *

And there are explanations to me made, a clearly terrified David and Mary Margaret appearing at Killian’s apartment when Emma answers his phone several hours later.

She’s not sure the explanations make much sense, but David tells them they’d been briefed that afternoon because Regina Mills has, apparently, been missing for weeks. Emma isn’t sure she understands the logistics of that, but she assumes she gets some kind of time travel pass.

“It works on Doctor Who,” she mumbles to Killian, and he has to duck his head into her shoulder to keep his laugh from being too obnoxious.

It doesn’t work.

Mary Margaret looks a little stunned.

“So, uh…” she says, waving both hands through the air. “That’s...this is a thing?”

“If it’s not, this whole day is going to be very weird,” Killian says.

“Yeah, that’s what will make it weird.”

Emma’s wearing a far-too-large NYPD shirt. Mary Margaret is very clearly plotting. “Good,” she says, nodding like that’s that and, well, that’s that.

True Love is rather difficult to argue, after all.

David and Mary Margaret leave eventually, Emma curled into the corner of Killian’s couch with her head on his thigh. He’s toying with her hair, neither one of them admitting their absolute fear of what will happen when the clock strikes midnight.

The witching hour, as it were.

“It’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian promises, not for the first time.

She nods against his shorts, eyes glued to the clock on his cable box. “Sure it will.”  
  
Eleven fifty-nine does, eventually, turn to midnight and Emma holds her breath, waiting for a sound and a moment and nothing happens. Killian exhales loudly.

“I thought it was going to be fine.”  
  
“Never doubted it, love.”  
  
Emma laughs lightly, pulling herself up to swing her legs perpendicular over Killian’s and his arm finds its way around her waist like there are magnets. “Do you think she’s just...stuck there? Regina, I mean?”  
  
“I don’t know. We’re not there anymore, so I don’t know how that affects the timeline. But she’s not...she’s not here and I don’t think she’s going to come back here. I think your magic made sure of that.”  
  
“Our magic. True Love magic.”  
  
“I’m a rather big fan of those words in that specific order.”  
  
“Do you think that’s why it didn’t work for Regina? She and Daniel weren’t True Love?”  
  
“I’m not a True Love expert, Swan.”  
  
“You studied all that magical history.”  
  
“And True Love was exceedingly rare. Some even theorized that it was impossible.”  
  
Emma chews on her lip, that particular revelation doing something rather particular to her pulse. “She'd killed people before, trying to get that kind of power."

"As far as I can figure it out, that's how we didn't realize she was magic," Killian says. "It was twisting her and hiding her and, she thought, it would make her more powerful."

"But it didn't work."

"No, it didn't, but I don't think she ever would have stopped. She would have kept killing people after Graham."

"I think it was because she was trying to change things," Emma whispers, not sure why she's nervous. They've settled into True Love rather easily. Because they time traveled. They had to time travel to fall in love. And, it seems, stop a homicidal witch. Half of that, at least, is pretty romantic. "Why it didn't work, I mean. That’s not...the world doesn’t like that, I don’t think.”

“Agreed.”  
  
“But you said that before. And you still came back with me.”  
  
“We’ve discussed that too, Swan. I didn’t want you to go alone.”  
  
“Gallant.”

“I had a crush on both you and Eliza Hamilton.”  
  
Emma’s whole body shakes with the force of her laughter, but it only takes a few moments for that laughter to dissolve into kissing and that kissing to move to the bedroom and a bed and they fall asleep tangled together.

* * *

Killian Jones loves telling Emma Swan he loves her. She realizes this rather quickly. She enjoys it immediately.

And she enjoys telling him she love him back.

Quite often.

All the time.

On a cross-Atlantic flight to Paris. Where, somewhere over the ocean with waves she’s certain probably match the color of her magical, True Love boyfriend’s eyes, she tells him she loves him and asks him to move into her apartment.

She barely gets the question out before he nods and kisses her and the rest of everything stretches out in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time in traffic last week, had a day off and wrote this. That is the only excuse. Also because I'll probably always be bitter about plot lines on Doctor Who and my brain is constantly like WRITE YOUR OWN GODDAMN TIME TRAVEL STORY THEN. So, that's also what this is. 
> 
> As always, thank you for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


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